Watson's Woes July 2011
by Pompey
Summary: Collecting all my (non-art) challenge answers from 2011. They are from various fandoms and of varying lengths but all involve Watson!whumpage.
1. July 1

Title: Taking Care of Their Own

A/N: prequel to my story/series "One of Their Own"

* * *

It had been a long, tiring day for Inspector Bradstreet but it was, praise be, finally over. A short walk through the deepening dusk and then he would finally be home. The very thought lent a bit of much –needed energy to his weary feet.

Bradstreet would never know what it was that set every nerve ending to tingling, whether it was a sound or a glimpse or something else entirely. But he had been a policeman far too long to disregard such hunches, whether he understood them or no. Immediately he flattened himself against the dirty brick wall and peered into the alley.

Nothing but shadows met him.

He squinted a moment more and was about to proceed when he heard an unmistakable groan. It was followed by a faint shuffling noise. Bradstreet bid a wistful good-bye to his quiet, restful evening by his own fireplace. Then he entered cautiously.

He found the body of a man face-down on the ground, not far from the alley-way entrance. Another drunkard, no doubt. And then Bradstreet realized the fabric of the coat was a high quality wool and its cut was tailored. The man had no hat and there was blood on the back of the head. Not a drunkard, but a foolish gentleman who had been out where he oughtn't to be and had been attacked – and robbed, no doubt. Bradstreet sighed and made to turn the man over. The body moved obligingly, limply, and revealed the face.

It was Dr. Watson.

Bradstreet caught his breath. Questions circled through his mind but only one was of utmost importance now: was the doctor still alive? He bent close. Yes, he could feel a faint huff of breath against his skin. Bradstreet's heart resumed its normal rhythm.

He started to pull Dr. Watson into a sitting position, getting him off the filthy ground. The movement only caused more problems. Apparently still unconscious, the doctor suddenly heaved and vomited. Bradstreet supported him as best he could through the bout. He considered lowering Watson back to the ground but something caught his attention and froze his heart again.

Watson had vomited blood. Lots of it.

Bradstreet fumbled for his whistle and blasted it. He was still close enough to the prison; even now he could hear the thump of running feet headed his way. They could load up the doctor into the Maria and drive hell-bent for the hospital. From there, Watson's fate was in the hands of the surgeons, _Deus vult_. That left only one more problem for Bradstreet to tackle –

- telling the news to Sherlock Holmes.


	2. July 2

Title: Bait

Challenge: July 2 – Rain, Lamp-post, Handkerchief, Flowers

A/N: dark. Also AU and character!death.

* * *

In the end, it was almost too easy. The Professor wouldn't have approved. It was too blunt and too straight-forward. But perhaps that's why it worked.

Just wait under a lamp-post or loiter near a newsstand until the doctor passed by. Follow him to the graveyard. Watch him pay his respects to the late missus, maybe with a bouquet of flowers, or maybe let him go so far as to pull out a handkerchief that he would never use . Aim, shoot, let the rain fall.

If Sherlock Holmes didn't make an appearance at the funeral, then he really _was _dead.


	3. July 3

Title: Ships and Surreys

Challenge: July 3 – hospital ship

A/N: RDJ movie-verse

* * *

"Hate ships," Watson murmured.

Holmes sighed and shifted his grip. There was no point in reminding Watson they were in a carriage, not a boat. He'd done that at least four times already but with Watson as punch-drunk as he was from a lucky uppercut, he wouldn't remember it a fifth time either.

"All that swaying . . . it's not right," the doctor persisted, slurring on the "s". "And the lights . . ."

"The lights?" asked Holmes, in spite of himself.

"Mmmm. Green. Red. Like Christmas but . . . all . . . wrong. Green for rot. Red for blood." Watson's head bobbed hard and Holmes had to adjust his grip again to keep his friend upright.

"What ship are you talking about?"

"Hosp'tal. The _Oconto_. Had to toss bodies into . . . tossing waves. Hate ships." Watson's head landed hard on Holmes's shoulder, which was still sore from the fight. He ignored the pain in favor of these revelations. He hadn't known Watson had served on a hospital ship or that his friend hated ships. It certainly shed light on his interactions with Captain Tanner on the Thames. At the time he had chalked it up to army-navy rivalries. What else didn't he know about Watson in regards to ships?

"Watson? Oh, no, you don't! Come on now, wake up."

Watson made a distinctively annoyed noise but lifted his head obediently. He swayed in time with the carriage, eyes unfocused. "I hate ships," he announced.


	4. July 4

Title: Letters

Prompt: July 4 - non-English holiday

* * *

Watson read and re-read what he believed to be Sherlock Holmes's last letter until the pages became dog-eared and the creases began to turn into tears. The idea of allowing this precious thing to decay hurt him almost as deeply as losing his friend. It was Mary's idea to frame it and keep it out of sunlight so that the ink wouldn't fade.

Watson never knew how close he came to receiving a second letter, postmarked Florence, Italy, which had been written (and then destroyed) on June 24. He who had written the letter would not have even taken up his pen had sentimentality not so moved him. As to what prompted the sentimentality, Florence was celebrating the feast of its patron saint –

Saint John.


	5. July 5

Title: Write Where It Hurts

Prompt: July 5 - pen is mightier than the sword

* * *

Watson stood perfectly still, the blade of Fraser's swordstick close enough to his throat to chill the skin but not actually pierce it. His revolver was locked in his desk drawer; Holmes's gun lay under Fraser's boot.

"I am losing my patience, gentlemen. I want those documents and I want them now."

Watson winced as the blade pressed harder and did not offer any information. Those documents were the only evidence that would see Fraser hung. Holmes could not give in. But what could he do with a sword at his throat and his gun out of reach? Well, Holmes had called him a man of action once, and he would not let Holmes down now.

There was a nib pen on his desk, one fresh and shiny and pointed. Holmes's expression remained impassive as Watson carefully reached over, silently grasped the pen, drew it up to his chest so that it aimed towards Fraser's palm, and thrust hard.

Fraser yelped and instinctively pulled away. Watson took pleasure in the capture, naturally, but as he retrieved the ruined, bloody pen, he decided the highlight of the day was that Holmes could no longer twit him on his writing habits now.


	6. July 6

Title: An Invaluable Companion  
Author: Pompey  
Prompt: July 6  
Word count: 150  
A/N: BBC-verse, AU

John had always abhorred being useless. He supposed everyone felt the same way but then, not everyone became doctors and joined the army in a desperate need to be needed.

That was why he was so pathetically grateful to have ended up with Sherlock Holmes after the disaster that was his Afghan tour. Sherlock needed a sounding board and John was admirably suited to listen. It may not have been a conventional arrangement but Sherlock fiercely defended it against the naysayers. Especially Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, really, Sherlock!" she tsked, bringing in the mail. "Must you keep that skull around?"

"He has a grand gift of silence," retorted Sherlock. "You've no idea how rare a gift that is nowadays."

"I think the university you stole it from might have more use of it than you."

"Hardly. Besides, we get along smashingly, don't we, John?"

John merely grinned back, silent as always.


	7. July 7

Title: Treasure  
Author: Pompey  
Prompt: July 7 - falling  
Word count: 100

An heiress. If Holmes and I were successful, Miss Morstan would be an heiress. Though I'd never personally seen any treasure birthed from Indian soil, I had heard plenty of tales . . .

Diamonds so sparkling they needed neither cutting nor polishing. Emeralds the size of a man's fist. Rubies so red one might mistake them for blood. Pearls that glowed and glimmered. And, of course, enough gold to make kings envious.

With that in her future, why would Miss Morstan even look twice at a crippled, half-pay doctor who'd had the misfortune to fall in love with her?


	8. July 8

Title: Release  
Author: Pompey  
Prompt: July 8 – picture  
Word Count: 440

Sherlock found John wandering about London's streets in the rain with naught but an umbrella for protection. "I killed a woman," he said.

At first Sherlock was intrigued and appalled. John Watson a murderer? Interesting. On the other hand, he had shot that cabbie who worked for Moriarty without a qualm. Unfortunately, the story that trickled from John's lips was all too ordinary.

"She'd been having abdominal discomfort for months. I thought it was just reflux, told her to take antacids. She went for a second opinion. Scans showed an ovarian mass." John looked up, bleakly. "Cancer."

Sherlock suppressed an impatient sigh. If he said what he really thought – that John was being ridiculous and boring – it would lead to a very cranky doctor doing illogical, emotional things like running off again and that was inconvenient. "When did she die?"

"She hasn't yet," John admitted. "She's just started drug therapy."

"Then you haven't killed her and you shouldn't be moping." QED.

Bollocks. There was John's you're-doing-things-that-make-people-think-you're- a-git-again-and-it's-annoying-so-stop-it look, which was not to be confused with his you're-doing-things-again-that-make-people-think-y ou're-a-git-again-so-for-your-own-sake-stop-it. Sherlock had confused them once in the first week of their acquaintance but he prided himself on never repeating the same mistake twice. In this instance, however, he still couldn't see the problem. "What?"

"Sherlock, if I hadn't misdiagnosed her she'd have a much better chance of survival than she has now. She wouldn't need such aggressive treatment. She'd have a better quality of life. It's my fault."

"You didn't give her the cancer so really it's the fault of the one mutant cell that multiplied."

Ohh, now that was a new expression. It seemed to combine You're-Being-A-Git-etc with Internal-Hurt-I-Refuse-To-Talk-About and overlaid with a pure anger. Interesting. And possibly dangerous.

"I should have helped her!"

"Can't you still help her?"

John froze, blinked at him once, then stared at the sodden ground. "I don't know."

Sherlock did sigh then. Changing the subject, he reached out and tugged away the umbrella. "You don't need this anymore."

"Huh?"

"The rain's stopped. It's snowing now. The umbrella won't do you any good." Sherlock meant to collapse the thing but John put a hand over his.

"No. Leave it here," he said simply. "You're right. I don't need it anymore. Circumstances have changed and I need to change with them."

Sherlock watched, baffled, as John trudged away, flakes of white just starting to coat his hair and jacket. How a brollie could have so suddenly changed his friend's depressed demeanor he didn't know but he wasn't about to question. As requested, he left the umbrella open on the round to collect snow and followed John down the street.


	9. July 9

Title: Cardamom

Prompt: July 9 – stress management or exhaustion

Word Count: 200

* * *

Watson suspected he was invited to attend the chai ceremony offered by the Afghans because he had a reputation for being cool-headed and efficient in a tight spot. Chai ceremonies had a history of being neutral ground, but one never knew.

To his surprise, Watson realized it was the first time since setting foot in the East that he felt relaxed and safe. So long as he kept the soles of his feet out of sight and accepting nothing with his left hand (and kept his gaze away from the women), the natives took no offense. There were no harsh words, no brandished weapons, no violence offered. It was positively soothing.

Also, the chai was delicious. This particular preparation was especially heavy on the cardamom, which Watson had never tasted before but took to immediately.

The memory of that day stayed with him, undimmed by injury or illness or the passage of years. One other thing stayed with him too - the sense of peace that washed over him whenever he smelled cardamom.

He knew Holmes wondered why he brought out a packet of the spice after stressful days, but little mystery never hurt Holmes, so Watson held his peace.


	10. July 10

Title: His Beatrice

Prompt: July 10 – midnight summons

Word count: 100

(Warning: character death)

* * *

Someone was calling his name. It almost sounded like -

"John."

- like Mary. He opened his eyes.

It _was_ Mary, as beautiful as the day they had met. "Oh, John," she said again, and kissed him.

"I've missed you so," he whispered.

Mary smiled reassuringly. "Come." Her hand was warm and soft and _young_ against his. She led him to the open window

He hesitated, looked back. Somewhere, distantly, a clock chimed twelve. "What about . . . "

Mary kissed him. "It's all right, John. Mr. Holmes will be along shortly."

They stepped out into the moonlight together.

* * *

Explanation for title: In Dante's Paradiso, the narrator is led through Heaven by his lost love, Beatrice


	11. July 12 (July 11 was art fic)

Title: Grudge

Prompt: July 12

Word count: 225

* * *

" 'The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly pertinacious'," read the doctor, annoyance coloring his voice. " 'I would like to take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice . . . a confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.'" Watson stopped reading and let his expression – which Holmes read so easily – make his commentary.

Holmes merely picked up a decades-old copy of The Strand. " 'He was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction . . . when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece . . . our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions . . . he had a horror of destroying documents'."

They grinned ruefully at each other and declared a truce.


	12. July 13

Title: Third Time's The Charm

Prompt: July 13 – superstition

Word Count: 100

* * *

Watson used a single match to light cigarettes for Holmes and Lestrade, then shook it out without lighting his own. Holmes noticed. "Why not light yours too?"

"You never light three cigarettes on one match," Lestrade answered immediately. "It's bad luck."

"Bad luck," Holmes snorted. "Superstitious nonsense!"

"Actually, in combat snipe-shooters use lit cigarettes to help them set their ranges," Watson pointed out. "It's not superstition; it's common sense."

"And do you expect to find many snipe-shooters in London?" scoffed Holmes.

Watson exchanged amused glances with Lestrade. "You're Sherlock Holmes. If there are any snipe-shooters in London, you'll find them."


	13. July 14

Title: Simple Cures

Prompt: July 14 – TLC for Watson

Word Count: 1500

A/N: you can read their relationship here as good friends or pre-slash, just as you like. (Also, the remedy mentioned here doesn't really work; I tried it for the sake of research. Creative liberties!)

* * *

The accident that occurred at the corner of Wadsworth and White that August afternoon was a terrible one, involving no fewer than three carriages. It was mere good fortune for the victims that I was passing by with my bag newly restocked. One of the drivers died within twenty minutes from an arterial bleed not even a tourniquet could stop. Two passengers remained crushed beneath the twisted remains of a carriage for almost two hours until a group could be organized to free them. One woman with superficial cuts and scratches went into hysterics; another quietly collapsed with a nasty laceration crossing her entire hairline. And all the while came eddies of sound from the crowds, pierced by various screams of man and beast alike.

Finally the last patient was loaded onto the ambulance and the last living horse (one having died in the impact, the other mercifully shot) was led, limping, away. I realized from the shadows it was well into evening. Mrs. Hudson was, no doubt, keeping a supper ready for me but I had lost any appetite after working in such hot, gruesome conditions. And I had no desire to relive the afternoon by explaining my tardiness or my blood-spattered appearance. Instead, I retreated to the nearest pub.

Lemonade is often kept available for teetotalers. I knew that full well. Nevertheless, what I consumed that night was something a bit stronger. It did not keep back the memories of the afternoon – I knew _that_ full well also – but it drew a pleasant curtain of numbness around me. It had been a long time since I had seen such bloodshed, and whatever mental calluses I had once possessed against horrors like that had softened and thinned. Thus I passed the time until the proprietor started to fidget and even the regular crowds began to depart. I came back to my full senses, more melancholy than ever. Baker Street was the only place I wished to be now.

Shortly thereafter I was hailing a cab and assessing the damage caused by my foolishness. Consuming alcohol on an empty stomach and spending hours in the sun without food or drink were chief among them. Soon, however, feeling my neck and face throb, I found another item to add to the list – sunburn.

In India and Afghanistan I developed a tolerance for high temperatures while my skin baked brown under the merciless sun. Of course, I had been far younger then. Even now I retained my tolerance for high temperatures, but more than a decade of English climes had worn away my tan. And, apparently, my very ability to tan. By the time I reached Baker Street I was nauseous and feverish with a pounding headache to boot. I had told Holmes I only meant to be gone an hour or so to refill my doctor's bag and I dreaded having to explain things to him.

It was a relief to see no lights on in our sitting room; the inevitable could be put off a little while longer. I left my jacket and hat at the door, and opted to carry my boots as I crept up the stairs. By the faint light of the lamp outside, I found a headache powder in my bag and emptied it into a glass of water.

"What's happened to your ear?"

I turned. Holmes stood in the doorway of his bedroom, clad in his nightshirt. How he could see the damage I could not say, for I could scarcely make out his features in the dark.

"Sunburn," I answered briefly.

He crossed over to me as I drank the bitter medication. "It looks severe."

I shrugged. "A few blisters."

He brought a hand up as if to assess my condition by touch but checked himself. "Wait here."

He was but a few moments. When he returned, he carried a glass of some kind of liquid which he handed to me. It was ginger water, wonderfully refreshing, that dispelled what was left of the nausea. However, it could not keep my head from pounding abominably or lessen the pain of the burns.

"Can you make it upstairs?" he asked, almost off-handedly, though his intent gaze never left my face.

"I think so." By virtue of gripping the railing and moving slowly, I found that I was able. Holmes followed me a step behind all the way until I was safely ensconced in my own room. With that, he left.

No doubt he meant to return to his bed. There was no reason for him not to. With a sigh I arranged myself on top of the coverlet and tried to sleep. Folly, of course. I could still hear the screams of the afternoon echoing in my mind.

A creak of floorboards and the gentle clink of glass against wood let me know I was not alone. I raised my head at the disturbance. It had grown darker and Holmes had lit a couple of candles. He had also brought up a small pitcher of what smelled like strong cider vinegar.

"What on earth -?"

"I thought it might help," he replied simply. "I have some personal experience with sunburn, you see, and found vinegar to be a most effective treatment."

"Vinegar," I repeated dully.

"It causes no harm, I assure you, unless it happens to run into one's eyes. Then it stings like the very devil."

"I can imagine."

"Would you care to try it?"

He asked the question in such a way that I was free to decline if I wished. I had little faith in the treatment, but Holmes had said he had used it to good effect and I could not believe that he would recommend vinegar unless it did indeed work.

"So long as I can keep it out of my eyes." I made to sit up but Holmes held up a hand.

"No, lay down. I can see where the worst of the sunburn is whereas you cannot."

"Perhaps not, but I can feel it," I muttered.

"I do not doubt that," he smiled. "Close your eyes now or what you will be feeling is even more pain." So saying, he dipped his handkerchief into the vinegar, squeezed it slightly, and applied it to my forehead in light dabs. Once that was finished, he moved on to my ears, nose, and cheeks. The vinegar stung initially but that soon subsided.

"I suppose you are wondering how I came to know of this remedy?" Holmes asked at length, continuing his ministrations.

"You suppose rightly."

At first Holmes said nothing. I heard the sound of his handkerchief being sloshed through the vinegar again and felt the wet, stinging touch of the cloth on my face.

"It was the summer before I began university," he said at last. "I went to visit my grandmother in France, along the coast, to both polish my French and reacquaint myself with my maternal family. I was scarcely more social in France than I was in England but there was one activity I enjoyed with the local boys: swimming. It was the Continental fashion of the area to swim in short trousers, bare-chested. I saw no reason not to emulate them.

"Of course, I was used to temperate English climes. Nor had I ever exposed such large portions of my skin to such direct sunlight. By the end of the day I looked and felt as raw and red as freshly butchered meat. I could scarcely hobble home and by the time I did I was covered in fearsome blisters.

"Grandmere sat up the entire night with me, sponge-bathing every inch of burned skin with her homemade apple vinegar. At dawn she let me sleep and I awoke feeling nearly myself again. The worst of the burns remained, of course, but the pain was gone. Grandmere waited until I was peeling to scold me for my utter foolishness. She was eminently practical that way."

"She sounds like a remarkable woman," I murmured, fighting drowsiness.

"She was that," Holmes agreed softly. "She was a daughter of the artist Vernet. Her brother was an artist of some renown as well but her own talents lay in wood carvings. Oh, yes," he laughed when I opened my eyes to look at him in disbelief. "Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms. I have a cane she carved for her father if you doubt her skill."

Holmes likely continued speaking after that but I confess I ceased to listen, the sound of his voice lulling me to sleep. I am quite sure he discovered I had attended the accident, although he never asked me and I certainly did not volunteer the reason. At any rate, I don't think it would have mattered much. He saw that I was distressed and in pain, and he sought, in his own way, to remedy that, regardless of the cause. It was a simple cure but an effective one.


	14. July 15

Title: LADY revisited

Prompt: July 15 – fix the canon

Word count: 900

A/N: I return to a topic I addressed in a previous story but one that STILL bugs the heck out of me! And I never did have Holmes give a satisfactory answer then. Warnings: you may not like the reason why Holmes acted the way he did

* * *

"And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear Watson," said Holmes, upon reaching the hotel room. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing."

"Nothing, Holmes?" I asked with as much sarcasm as my bruised throat would allow. "I have determined why Lady Frances gave Marie Devine a cheque for fifty pounds, a point which you yourself were unable to uncover. I know why Marie Devine left Lady Frances's employ and have given you the date that enables you to discount her as a suspect or accomplice. I have uncovered where Lady Frances had gone to after departing from Lausanne. I have learned of the persons she interacted with shortly before she disappeared entirely. Any alarm which I may have raised is surely no great matter since our birds have flown weeks ago. Actually, Holmes, I find your behavior far more cause for alarm. If you wished me to return to London, why in heaven's name have you been lying in wait for me, play-acting, rather than wire me to return?"

I broke it off there, realizing my voice had risen into a shout.

Holmes looked startled and, for once, uncertain. "I should say it was a lucky thing for you that I was, as you so luridly put it, 'lying in wait' for you. The Hon. Philip Green would have throttled you entirely right then and there."

"Very well, I will admit I blundered with him." Nevertheless, I felt my bruised throat and pounding headache were punishment enough. "What exactly were my other mistakes?"

Had I been less angry, I should have been downright concerned at how Holmes faltered. "I have already listed them."

"You most certainly have not! More to the point, you have not answered my question as to your behavior. Why did you not simply wire me? Why come to France in disguise?"

He did not answer me right away and at last worry broken through my anger. "Holmes?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "You are quite right, Watson. Apart from your dealing with the Hon. Philip Green, you conducted your investigation admirably. Far more admirably than I have done. I have no excuse for my behavior." He turned from me to stare out the window with every line of his body communicating misery.

"Holmes? What is it?" I asked in some alarm.

"You were injured while assisting me," he said dully. "And had I used my brains at all I might have prevented it."

"I don't see how. As it is, you certainly saved me from unconsciousness if not death."

"I should have wired, though. You are right about that; I should have wired. Why didn't I? Why didn't I think to?" This last sentence was snarled out, and he stalked away from both the window and me.

Now I was truly alarmed. "Holmes, for pity sake, what is it?" But we were interrupted by a card borne on a silver platter, announcing the arrival of the Hon. Philip Green, and I was not to receive an answer until the end of the case.

"She nearly died because of my slowness," Holmes muttered that evening, bereft of all energy. "Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson, it can only be as an example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed."

"But such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them," I answered. "That is what you did for Lady Frances."

"But only barely, Watson. And even yet her mind may be irreversible altered for the worse due to her prolonged exposure to chloroform."

"You saved her life."

"And what sort of life can she lead, a helpless lump of flesh unable to perform the most basic task for herself? With her mind in shreds and useless . . . useless . . ."

"Holmes, what is the matter?" I cried in alarm. For some reason, I had the impression he was speaking not only of Lady Frances.

The mantle clock ticked out long minutes before he replied. "I am losing my wits, Watson," Holmes whispered. "My faculties of reasoning are so dulled. Last night I could feel my brain whirling away, trying to gain any bit of traction that would solve the case, but to no avail_. I could feel myself trying to think and failing_."

I sat, my own mind growing numb with sympathy and horror. "A holiday," I started to offer.

"Will do nothing for me. I am old, Watson, old and rapidly losing my faculties. Another blunder such as this would be inexcusable. For a while now I have considered retiring and now I know it is time to begin looking for my little dream farm in Sussex."

I sat silently, not knowing what I could say to alleviate his guilt and, I knew, his fear. "You did save her life," I said at last. "And likely mine as well. That must count for something."

Holmes smiled weakly at me and nodded. "Thank you, Watson. It does," he said, but we both knew his words rung hollow.

In the face of losing what made him Sherlock Holmes, it counted for nothing at all.


	15. July 16

Title: "Scooped"

Prompt: July 16 – Dutch ship _Friesland_

Word count: 150

A/N: I may be playing a little fast and loose with the dates but to be fair, I don't recall that there's a year actually mentioned in *ahem* Doyle's "other" work.

* * *

_"The only other evidence which I can adduce is from the log of the S.S. _Friesland_, a Dutch-American liner, which asserts that at nine the next morning . . . they were passed by something between a flying goat and a monstrous bat, which was heading at a prodigious pace south and west. If its homing instinct led it upon the right line, there can be no doubt that somewhere out in the wastes of the Atlantic the last European pterodactyl found its end" – The Lost World_

_. . . . . _

Holmes looked up at Watson's exclamation. He took in the angry expression, the title on the book he was reading, and the familiar name listed as author. "Regretting introducing Edward Malone to your writing agent?" Holmes asked mildly.

"I told Doyle nine years ago I wished to write up the _Friesland_ case. He told me it was too fantastic, never mind that the public had already seen the pterodactyl. " _The Lost World_ flew across the room. "Twenty years of loyalty from me and he gives that upstart Malone the story."

Holmes shrugged. "Challenge converted to Doyle's ridiculous views on spirituality, and Challenger's daughter is now Mrs. Malone, the noted spiritualist. You had no chance against that, my dear Watson."

"It's still reprehensible."

Holmes smiled to himself. Watson was too angry to appreciate hearing it, but the real reason he was so upset was simply that he had been "scooped."


	16. July 17

Title: Scarf

Prompt: July 17 – dialogue

Word count: 100

A/N: inspired by a behind-the-scenes tidbit about Jude Law's scarf in the second SH movie

* * *

"That scarf doesn't suit you."

"What do you mean it doesn't suit me? Of course it does."

"The colors are all wrong, the stripes are too thick, and clashes with your coat. Also, there's a dropped stitch in the middle of it."

" . . . Then what sort of scarf _would_ you recommend for me, Holmes? Well?"

"Um . . . tight-weave silk, no fringe, in dark grey shot through with beige."

"And not made by Mary, presumably?"

". . . "

"Well, that settles it. I shall definitely have to wear this scarf every time I visit you."


	17. July 18

Title: Hypothetical

Prompt: July 18 - "burning building" pic

Universe: BBC

Word count: 221-B

* * *

"Have you gone completely mad?" Sherlock demanded, and was pushed back by a paramedic. Just as well. John wouldn't have been able to speak through the oxygen mask and they wouldn't let him remove it just to gasp out a few words.

Donovan answered. "He thought you were in there. He went in to save you. And now look at him." Her eyes looked harder and more hate-filled than Sherlock had ever seen them but they were easier to look at than at John on the stretcher with his hair burned away and his skin raw and blackened. Easier, too, to focus his anger on her instead.

"Why would he think I was in there anyway?" Sherlock snarled. "I said I'd gone to confront Billingsworth!"

"Right," Donovan snarled back. "Isn't he the stupid one for thinking Billingsworth would be at home instead of fleeing the country. Or for not deducing that Billingsworth had set up the firebomb booby trap. Well, here's a thought: maybe next time you could _bloody well warn him_. 'Cause if you keep leaving him – and us – in the dark like that, one day John Watson won't be almost killed by your stunts. He _will_ be killed."

She turned abruptly on her heel. Sherlock considered her scenario. Suddenly he felt . . . oddly . . . bereft.


	18. July 19

Title: Priorities

Prompt: July 19 – fog song

Word count: 100

A/N: Holmes is more important than Jack the Ripper. (is it wrong that what came to my mind while reading the prompt was "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"?)

* * *

Holmes was right – fog was capable of hiding the most nefarious deeds and of shielding the most despicable of criminals. That was precisely why Watson was worried sick as he stumbled through the shrouded streets of Whitechapel, searching for Holmes.

They shouldn't have separated, he thought fiercely. Just because the Ripper had focused his attention on unfortunate women was no reason to think he wouldn't turn on a lone man if cornered. And Holmes, as usual, was not armed.

At long last he found Holmes under a lamplight, thoroughly disgruntled at losing their quarry. Watson was too relieved to care.


	19. July 20

Title: They Have Bad Days, Even In Australia

Prompt: July 20 – terrible horrible no-good very bad day

Word Count: 100

Description: even young!Watson has woes

* * *

He hid himself away from the world that was causing him such misery, curling into a ball and fought back tears.

He didn't know how to go about making amends for that morning's fight, for he'd said things one ought to never say to a best friend, and vice versa. That fight had colored the whole rest of the day, which had already been gloomy and overcast. He couldn't even lose himself in his current book, because it had disappeared since last night.

And to cap it all, that evening Father said they were all going to move to Australia


	20. July 21

Title: What Haunts the Ghost

Prompt: July 21 – acquainted with the night

Word Count: 150

Warnings: very much alternative universe and sorta-kinda character death . . . somewhat. And slightly crack!fic

* * *

After his death, Watson returned to that which felt the most familiar and safe. Sometimes he wandered the streets, aimless and untethered as a balloon. He never went out for long. He was invisible and ignored by all except those who could See, and they shunned him for his aura of loneliness.

Tenants never stayed for long. The oppressive sadness he carried affected even the most hardened of skeptics. Rather than try to contact their resident ghost, they fled, every one. The thin young man with the strange hobbies would be no exception.

So it was a shock when the young man suddenly looked straight in his direction one night and said, "If you ARE the so-called ghost of Baker Street, would you kindly stop frosting over the windows? It makes it deucedly hard to see."

Watson stopped, eagerly. Perhaps there was some hope for the new tenant after all.


	21. July 22

Title: Cause for Concern

Prompt: July 22 - fanmail

Word count: 585

Summary: John worries about a rabid fan on his blog. Lestrade worries about John.

A/N: BBC created .uk to correspond with the show. My character of "theinscrutableone" is based on the character and comments of "theimprobableone" from John's blog. Major spoilers for BBC series.

* * *

Commenting on "A Study in Pink" OMG he is bloody brilliant! ITA you have to show us how he does it! theinscrutableone 07 February 17:47

Commenting on "A Study in Pink" srsly howd he do it? don't tell him to get the milk hes a genius he's got better things to do theinscrutableone 07 February 18:59

Commening on "A rant" Annoys me when a certain blogger won't give us more Sherlock like he's supposed to theinscrutableone 23 March 19:02

Commenting on "The Blind Banker" he's right you need to focus on his methods and not the story its not all about you theinscrutableone 28 March 13:09

Commenting on "The Blind Banker" And he's right about the punctuation. You've been to uni; you should knwo better. Or do you need someone to give you a refresher? theinscrutableone 28 March 13:10

.

To: glestrade . From: jhwatson .uk Subject: Um, should I be concerned about this?

_I know you read my blog but have you seen some of the comments? . . . and should I be concerned? _

_._

To: jhwatson .uk From: glestrade . Subject: Re: Um, should I be concerned about this?

_I've read the comments and honeslty, I don't know. Could be your average anonymous internet nutter or it could be a genuine threat. With Sherlock, who knows. If you want to be on the safe side, take screenshots of the comments and save them. Also, print out the comments. And maybe delete the entry for March 27, advertising what you two look like is a bit risky given Sherlock's line of work. And, well, his personality. _

_May want to censure your write-ups a little bit more too. Forgot to mention it, but an honest thanks! for keeping my name out of "A Study in Pink." _

_Anyway, let me know if the nutter shows up again. Good luck._

.

To: glestrade . From: jhwatson .uk Subject: Re: re: Um, should I be concerned about this?

_Thanks, done! _

_._

Commenting on "Life Goes On" Well great for you but WHAT IS SHERLOCK DOING? Why's he in Minsk? theinscrutableone 29 March 09:11

Commenting on "Life Goes On" Are you going to post the about Sherlock or not? theinscrutableone 30 March 13:09

Commenting on "Life Goes On" Two days and no word? Not cool. Explain yourself. theinscrutableone 31 March 02:30

.

Text to G. Lestrade, 30 March 12:52 _Nutter at it again. Cant deal with Sherlock and explosion and nutter too. I turned on the log IP address. Can you use that?_

Text to J. Watson, 30 March 14:23 _Sorry for delay. Yah boys in Tech can work with that. Bring your laptop by. _

Text to J. Watson, 30 March 14:24 _Any leads on hostage explosions?_

Text to G. Lestrade, 30 March 14:24 _THANK YOU will do_

Text to G. Lestrade, 30 March 14:25 _None that he's telling me. _

Text to G. Lestrade, 30 March 14:26 _This is absolutely mad. _

_._

To: jhwatson .uk From: glestrade . Subject: Re: re: re: Um, should I be concerned about this?

_Good news , the nutter was a fifteen year old with a serious crush on Sherlock Holmes, poor delusional kid. Let her know the police take threats seriously. Think we put the fear of S.Y. into her but let me know if she starts up again. _

_You can pick up your laptop any time. _

_._

To: jhwatson .uk From: glestrade . Subject: Re: re: re: Um, should I be concerned about this?

_John, you ok? Haven't heard from you or Sherlock in almost a week but the bombings have stopped. _

_Should I be concerned about this?_


	22. July 23

Title: Marazin Revisited

Prompt: July 23 - FINIS

Word count: 930

A/N: I get that Jeremy Brett was very ill and couldn't film most of "The Mazarin Stone" but omg, what an opportunity for hurt!Watson-comforting!Holmes lost! Also, that "third eye" thing was ridiculous . . . . as was just about everything in the ending. Warnings: MAJOR spoilers for Granada's "Marazin Stone"

* * *

In anger and desperation Count Sylvius flung his spent revolver at the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes. Even had he not missed, the missile would have done little to stop Mycroft from advancing. The count turned abruptly, ready to flee, when a single shot rang out.

Both men froze, temporarily. Then Count Sylvius gave a gurgling choke. The walking stick fell to the ground with dull thunk. His hands came up to claw at the sudden blossom of red spreading across his chest. Then the count pitched forward and topped into the mud, already dead.

Mycroft peered through the darkness but the place where he had seen the pinpoint of gunfire was empty now. No matter; he had a sneaking suspicion as to who had fired the shot . . . as well as where the Mazarin stone might be found. As the police ran past, he unobtrusively collected the walking stick. The bejeweled top gave way easily and from the hollowed out secret compartment tumbled out the great yellow diamond.

"Brother mine, bravo," a low voice said. Mycroft looked up, unsurprised.

"You look dreadful, Sherlock," and he did. His little brother had a grayish pallor with dark rings beneath his eyes, and wore rumpled clothing that appeared not to have been changed for days. And rather than explain himself or his actions, the incorrigible man did little more than shrug.

"I look no worse than Watson, I fancy. You will see to the diamond. I will see to him." So saying, Sherlock turned and slipped away into the mist.

. . . . .

"Holmes, you look terrible." This, coming from a man with a bruising, shallow cut across half his throat and a deep, still-bleeding gash in his hand!

"Yes, so Mycroft tells me." Holmes scrutinized every inch of Watson's form and determined there were no other injuries. "You've had quite the night, from the looks of it. Evans turned deadly at the last?"

Watson grimaced. "He flung a diamond cleaver with the skill of a knife-thrower. It looks worse than it is."

"Nevertheless." Holmes gently manipulated the wounded limb. Oh, yes – stitches would most certainly be required and they would be done immediately, by a doctor, no matter how late it was. "I'm sorry I was not here. I left as soon as I knew you would be hurt."

"As soon as . . ." Watson shook his head. "Holmes, how could you possibly have known that? For that matter, how did you know about Evans? You are a wizard in the field of ratiocincricy but even you have limits." The doctor suddenly narrowed his eyes. "Or have you become a believer in Spirituality and that sort of thing?"

Holmes smiled faintly and shook his head. "No, Watson. This agency continues to remain flat-footed on the ground. As for what I meant by 'watching you with my third eye', I shall tell you on the way to the nearest physician. No, no arguments, Watson. That hand needs attention and you are curious. Come with me or remain unenlightened."

Watson acquiesced with a sigh and they were soon rattling through the streets. Holmes continued by way of a reward. "I said I would be watching you with my third eye in a fit of pawky humor. My 'third eye' was in fact the reports I charged Billy with sending me to keep me abreast of your progress. Well, yours and Mycroft's."

"Well, that does explain that mystery."

"Are there any other mysteries you wish me to clear up?"

Watson shifted with a wince. "How did you know I would be injured? Evans is a dangerous criminal, certainly, but injury was no guarantee."

"Because I know Evans's history, and I know you, my dear Watson," Holmes answered gently. "You do not hesitate in a fight, no matter what the risk of bodily harm. It is a trait that has served us well up until now but nevertheless, I wish I had been here when you confronted him."

"Do not worry yourself, Holmes," he replied. "I only hope you did not leave your business in the Highlands unfinished."

"It is adequately finished," assured Holmes. He knew Watson would not pry any further unless he offered up further details. A gentleman did not inquire into personal matters and Watson was a gentleman to the core. But Watson, as his friend as well as physician, deserved to hear the truth. "I went to the Highlands to prevent a relapse."

"A relapse?" Watson sounded puzzled but he looked as though he had an inkling as to the answer.

Holmes nodded once. "The cravings for the needle have never entirely vanished but they can be kept in check. Recently, though, I felt myself weakening. I had to remove myself from temptation, to force myself into a place where the drugs cannot be found easily, until the cravings could once more be contained."

Watson grasped his arm, heedless of the fresh wound. "My dear fellow, if relapse is still a danger you should not have returned to London."

Holmes smiled at the characteristic declaration. "My sojourn was near enough its end that I felt it was safe to return. But, if you are still concerned, perhaps you might join me. I should say you have earned yourself a holiday. If nothing else, I know you shall require watching to make sure you do not overuse your hand before it is healed."

Watson scoffed but with affection and amusement. "If nursing me will provide you with the distraction you need, then by all means let us go to the Highlands."


	23. July 24

Title: The Benefits of Fresh Air

Prompt: July 24 – seasonal storm

Word count: 511

A/N: This is late Feb/early March the day after a storm, so somewhere between winter and spring.

* * *

"You can stop grumbling," Watson chided. "You cannot tell me walking through snow is that much of a hardship."

Holmes retained his unimpressed expression. "It is less of hardship for me than for you, given the snow is ankle deep and as thick and sticky as Mrs. Hudson's porridge."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I simply fail to see the purpose of physical exertion for the sake of physical exertion," Holmes huffed. "Particularly after such weather and on an uncleared park path."

Watson stopped beneath a tree branch heavy with newly fallen snow. "It's warmed up considerably since yesterday, and fresh air will do us both good after being shut up in Baker Street for three days with your shag tobacco and your chemical experiments."

Holmes did not have time to create a scathing retort. There was an ominous creak, followed by a thunderous crack. Watson looked up just as the overstrained branch collapsed and dropped like stone. It caught him across the neck and shoulders as he tried to run out of the way.

For a full second Holmes was paralyzed with horror. Then he stopped to his knees and rolled away the offending tree limb. Watson shifted and groaned a moment later. "No, Watson, don't try to move yet." Holmes immediately put a hand to his shoulder to keep him still. "You might do yourself a further injury."

Watson obeyed for a few seconds before he stirred again. "Think I'm all right," he mumbled, somewhat muffled by the snow. "How long – "

"No more than ten seconds. My dear fellow, are you sure you're fit to move so soon?"

"Yes." Slowly and painfully Watson dragged himself into a sitting position. For a few seconds his eyes remained screwed tight with pain. Then he deliberately relaxed his face and, with Holmes's help, staggered to his feet. Even so, his left hand gripped the back of his neck.

"We are going back to Baker Street," Holmes announced, his voice uncharacteristically sharp and thin.

Watson started to nod and immediately thought better of it. "All right."

They silently trudged arm-in-arm back home, the cabs few and far between because of the thick, slick slush filling the roads. Jackson was called in, much to Watson's dismay, and advised rest, morphine, and cold compresses followed by warm ones. Holmes waited and watched with shadowed eyes until the doctor finally closed up his bag.

"He'll be fine," Jackson assured him. "He will be extremely sore for the next week or so but so long as he doesn't overtax himself, he should be no worse for wear."

Holmes nodded but the shadows did not lift until he was by Watson's bedside. His friend lay on his side, a cold compress against the back of his neck, eyes dull and groggy from the pain-killer. But he would be all right. Holmes took his hand and spoke shakily, not even close to joking.

"Watson, the next time you feel a need for fresh air, kindly open a window. It will be safer and easier for both of us."


	24. Julyl 25

Title: Behind the Morgue Doors

Prompt: July 25 – supernatural

Word count: 802

A/N: bit of shameless self-promotion; here's an expansion on my drabble "The Autopsy" (#84 of "More Things That Never Happened to Sherlock Holmes")

* * *

It was Watson who, by luck of the draw, was available to autopsy the poor unfortunate pulled out of the Thames. And, as luck would also have it, Watson had cut his right hand rather badly earlier that day. But rather than bow out and be indebted to another surgeon the police roster, he merely donned some extra sticking plaster and a thin glove for protection.

It was a remarkably fresh corpse, Watson noted with some interest. There was no bloating, no sloughing, not even wrinkling of the fingertips and toes from being submerged. The limbs were still supple. If not for the drenched condition and deathly pallor he would never have guessed this was a drowning victim. But then, the river was a convenient means of disposing of bodies; perhaps the man had not drowned after all. Watson made the first incisions.

Curious. No, this was beyond curious. The fluid that welled up beneath his scalpel was not the dusky reddish brown he anticipated. It was a pale, watery blue at first, and as he proceeded the hue darkened. Watson could not think of a single medical condition nor environment that would turn change the color of human blood so drastically. Strange, too, that the incisions bled so readily. It was almost as if – but no. No pulse, no respiration, no response to a painful stimuli. Watson opened the chest and froze.

He knew the organ systems of the human body as well as Holmes knew London. He could perform surgery half-asleep (and very likely had, during the war). What presented in front of him now was further from human than a dog or cat.

Strange tubes of algae-screen looped about the cavity and ducked into round, peacock-green pouches running vertically along the spine. Here and there odd little blots of orangy-yellow shown out against green with no apparently rhyme or reason to their alignment. Over all of these things lay fine membranes of robins-egg blue.

Suddenly there was movement within the cavity and Watson leaped back, clutching the scalpel desperately.

Several tiny black tubes snaked out from behind the peacock-green pouches and burrowed upwards into shoulder muscle. Watson had noted the presence of small dark spots scattered on the body's shoulders and neck but had thought they were nothing but moles. Now he could see he had been gravely mistaken. Each spot gaped open for a moment, and then snapped shut. They did this not once but over and over again. Exactly, Watson realized, the way fish breathe, and suddenly it made terrible sense.

Fish breathe with gills when underwater. And this . . . body . . . had been pulled from the Thames. It looked human outwardly and there would be no reason for it to do so unless it were

trying to blend in with humans. Perhaps the creature was adapted to breathe both above and under the water, and was even now adjusting to the change in its environment. But if it was adapting, then it was alive, and if it was alive -

Watson dropped the scalpel and dashed for the heavy iron doors to the morgue. Behind him he heard a wheezy gasp that turned into a gurgling roar. He heard the splat of damp naked feet hitting the cold concrete floor and an inhuman howling scream. He did not look back.

Watson wrenched the door open and flung all his weight against it to close. A heavy body thudded against the door, shaking it on its hinges, even as he desperately locked it. He pawed off the now-stained glove, thanking providence for the cut that had led to him wearing the glove in the first place. Then, as the reaction crashed over him, he slid down to sit against the door, shaking violently.

"Doctor?"

He knew the voice but could not take the time to identify its owner. His mind was too engaged with making sure no one else entered the morgue while that thing was still locked inside. He fumbled for his revolver and leveled it at the speaker. "Stay away!"

There were more words in a placating tone but Watson was having none of it. He could not yet speak of what he had seen but should he move aside someone might try to enter and – no. Better to let them think he'd gone mad. Perhaps he had. Even after inhaling the Devil's Foot Root he had not envisioned such nightmares.

Then Holmes was crouched next to him, looking concerned and calling his name.

Watson had a concern of his own. "Don't go in."

Behind him the creature smacked the doors again and this time Watson thought he could feel even the iron give way the tiniest bit. Whether he was ready or not, it was time to explain.

"It's not dead. And it's not human."


	25. July 26

Title: Best Intentions

Prompt: July 26 – 4 of 5 words

Word count: 360

A/N: one of my best friends had surgery recently; this is based on part of her experience. (Yes, she's doing much better now but she's sworn to never ever ever accept a morphine drip again.)

* * *

The bolt hole was small and somewhat stuffy already so they only lit a single lantern. But one lantern provided enough light for Holmes to see the mottled red of imminent bruising on Watson's side. He found some muslin to bind the fractured ribs, and afterwards, as Watson sank into a chair with a muffled groan, Holmes brought out a little bottle and a syringe.

"No morphine," Watson said.

Holmes ignored him. "You needn't be so stoic. They'll never find this place; it's safe to ease the pain."

"Holmes, you don't under st– "

Years of wielding the needle meant Holmes had found a vein and performed the injection before Watson had finished his protest. Watson glared daggers at him but Holmes only shook his head. "You'll thank me before the night is over."

"I doubt it."

Within two minutes Holmes understood why. Watson paled to a fish-belly white, then turned ash grey. A fine sheen of sweat sprang up on his forehead and his hands shook slightly. Then he began swallowing convulsively. Contritely, Holmes fetched a spare bucket and stood back a respectful distance when Watson turned sick – which he knew could not help the broken ribs a bit.

Fifteen minutes later the morphine had finally taken effect. Watson slumped in the chair bonelessly, eyes at half mast, but the pain lines had eased. That was a small mercy; Holmes would not have dared given him any more morphine after the first reaction.

"Are you still in any pain?"

"Not really," Watson mumbled.

"I'm very sorry, my dear fellow. I had no idea you react so violently to morphine."

" 's a common side 'ffect."

"One I have never had the misfortune of experiencing. Has it always been this way for you?"

"Mmm hmmm." Watson's eyes finished closing and he seemed far more asleep than awake. Holmes draped a somewhat ratty blanket over his friend. Then he dimmed the lantern and settled in himself. Keeping watch would be no hardship; he was used to staying up nights.

"H'lmes?"

"Yes?" He leaned forward, listening intently.

"I still don't thank you."

Holmes merely smiled and let him have the final word.


	26. July 27

Title: If One Would Be A Writer

Prompt: July 27 – poem

A/N: It's admittedly anachronistic but the poem Holmes quotes is "The Infirmities of Genius" by Ray Bradbury. It just fit too well not to use.

* * *

"Bless you," Holmes said for the third time in nearly as many seconds, with noticeable less patience than the first two times. Watson thanked him wearily, blew his nose, and picked up his pen again with a sigh.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I see you subscribe to the Bradbury school of thought concerning writing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"According to Bradbury, if one wishes to write well, one must first be _un_well."

Watson tried to snort and ended up sneezing again. "Sounds like twaddle to me."

Holmes smiled wickedly. "Ah, but recall you said the same thing about my article 'The Book of Life.' Bradbury states his case well:

_For example, there Pope shambles; there club-footed Byron strays. _ _There blood-poisoned Whitman mumbles in war's uncivil days. _ _There mad poet Poe inhales his vasty draughts of morbid snow;_ _There an epileptic Swinburne in his writhings makes a show."_

"Holmes."

_"Notice – Robert Burns takes fever with rheumatic fits and starts; _ _See grand Balzac's high blood pressure pump him in and out of arts_. "

"Holmes, really." Watson's annoyed glower would have been more intimidating had he not sneezed again and ruined it.

"Well, if you disagree, then perhaps you should stop writing and try to rest before your cold worsens."

"It's due tomorrow. I'll rest then." Watson coughed once and resolutely bent over his paper.

_"Be you normal, plain and simple, uninvested with a germ? _

_Then your tales will bore, be lifeless. Go and buy yourself a worm. "_

Watson threw down his pen and glared. "Holmes, if I promise to stop in one hour, will that satisfy you enough to stop quoting poetry at me?"

He considered. "It's an acceptable compromise."

"Good." Once more, Watson picked up his pen. "_Achoo_!"

Holmes repressed a sigh. "Bless you."


	27. July 28

Title: Bearable

Prompt: July 28 – enclosed spaces

A/N: yet another story inspired by my poor friend and her surgery. (latest update: she's doing well enough to tell me that her husband is being very sweet and very useless.)

* * *

"You have to keep still, John, or we won't get a clear image."

John gritted his teeth, hands balling the hospital gown. _Keep still_ was bloody well easy for the bloody tech to say. She wasn't the one with gut-churning nausea and little lightening bolts of pain lancing her stomach. She wasn't the one in the bloody CT scanner having her bloody abdomen scanned because the bloody A&E doctors wouldn't believe her when she said she was having a gallbladder attack. No, all those honors belonged to John and John alone.

He glanced around at the smooth white walls that seemed inches from his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't usually claustrophobic but then, he'd never had a CT scan before. It was his abdomen they wanted pictures of; why not send him in feet-first so at least his head was free? John had a vision of the machine suddenly crumpling down around him, crushing him, while the techs watched helplessly. He flinched involuntarily.

"John, you need – " The tech's voice suddenly cut off. There were sounds of muffled conversation: the tech and someone with a deep voice, a man . . . The intercom crackled to life again.

"John. You could handle the war in Afghanistan and you can handle rooming with me; surely you can handle fifteen more minutes of lying still in a tube. Unless it's the boredom that's getting to you – I can hardly blame you – so let me catch you up on some of the geniuses treating you. For example, Eileen, the one running the scan right now, has an elderly Yorkshire terrier, has been cheating on her low-carb diet, and thinks her boyfriend's obsession with superhero movies is pathetic."

John felt his lips quirk up in a brief smile. Sherlock was right; the next fifteen minutes wouldn't be so bad.


	28. July 29

Title: Tight Spot

Prompt: July 29 – Illness, in a location where little to no help is forthcoming

A/N: This is sort of duplicate-y of my 28th entry but I read the prompts for the 28th and the 29th at the same time and they sorta . . . melded. And I didn't want to cheat but contributing one story for two prompts. Gave John a different infection this time, at least!

* * *

"If you had said something sooner we wouldn't be in the mess," Sherlock snapped, drumming his fingers against the handrail because there wasn't enough space in the lift to pace. "What kind of doctor can't even diagnose a simple textbook case of appendicitis?"

John merely shrugged and let his eyes close. He knew perfectly Sherlock was just worried about him and channeling that worry into anger, but he didn't have the stamina to argue at the moment. Besides, he _did_ have a point. If John had said he wasn't feeling well sooner, the appendicitis wouldn't have progressed so far. And it wouldn't have become necessary to risk taking the frankly scary lift in the clearly-not-up-to-code apartment complex the latest murderer was hiding in. And if they hadn't had to risk the lift, they would not have become trapped between floors when the power failed.

At least the cable hadn't snapped.

The emergency operator was calm, polite, and useless, assuring them they would be out within three hours. John couldn't completely suppress his look of alarm, and that was all it took for Sherlock to transform into his most difficult and Sherlockiest of personas. How he'd managed to deduce from voice alone that the operator was both gay and being cheated on, John didn't want to know. The upside was that the technicians arrived within twenty minutes and were even now pounding away at things, trying to restart the lift.

Sherlock finally sat on the floor next to John. "How risky would it be to boost you through the ceiling?"

John shook his head immediately. "Bad idea." It wasn't just the risk of rupture; it was how much it would _hurt_ to be maneuvered like that. Cowardly, perhaps, but just now he was feverish and sick and sore. Anything more would rip away the last of his defenses.

Sherlock sighed and nudged John's head onto his shoulder. And then slung a long thin arm around John's shoulders. "At this rate it'll be another hour."

"Should be ok."

"As soon as I have service again I'll contact Mycroft, have him get a surgical team ready."

"Mmph." John didn't particularly like Mycroft and he didn't trust him an iota, and the idea of being beholden to the man galled him, but pain trumped pride. The sooner he got into surgery, the better, and John knew it. He just didn't have to like it.

"Don't worry about that," said Sherlock, no doubt deducing his thoughts from the way his eyebrows twitched. "You saved my life a couple times already; Mycroft owes you. But John . . . next time – and there will be a next time, make no mistake – next time, you will _say something_ before the illness or whatever progresses this far."

"All right."

"That wasn't a question; it was an order." Sherlock's arm tightened minutely around him and John couldn't find it in him to be offended.


	29. July 30

Title: Basil and the Case of the Guinea-Pig Gang

Prompt: July 30 – fill in the blanks "Is that _ supposed to _?"

A/N: I don't think anyone's done a GMD entry yet, and that is a shame. This is Titus-verse, not Disney-verse. (Comparing Titus-verse to Disney-verse is like comparing Granada to Rathbone/Bruce, imho.) The Guinea-Pig Gang is mentioned in "Basil and the Pygmy Cats" but there are few details.

* * *

It was late 1893 that the mouse world of London was gripped with fear. The terrible Guinea-Pig Gang had sprung up after Professor Ratigan fled England, and any mouse who set a paw or whisker out of doors after nightfall risked life and limb. Victims of the Guinea-Pig Gang were found beaten within inches of their lives and stripped of all valuables. A few unfortunates were found dead, and one or two even more unfortunates simply disappeared.

Basil did his best but the clues were scanty. Victims were often still too frightened to speak. One church mouse who dared speak with Basil later had his home vandalized and afterwards refused to answer the door to anyone, least of all Basil or myself.

Basil went out nearly every night, hoping to catch the guinea-pigs in the act, to no avail. This ongoing failure haunted him. He grew uncharacteristically cross and snappish until Mrs. Judson feared to speak to him.

One afternoon I could take no more and I left Basil scowling in our sitting room while I went for a walk. I had thought there was no danger in venturing out in the middle of the afternoon. It turned out I was quite wrong.

It began not two blocks from Baker Street, when someone tred violently on my tail, and when I turned to protest, I was struck across the face with a walking stick. Then, as I fell, I was surrounded on all sides by a myriad of kicking paws. I received several blows before I could pull my revolver from my pocket and fire it. There was a squeal of pain and immediately my attackers vanished.

Nearly breathless with pain, I hobbled home. I had little doubt I was the latest victim of the Guinea-Pig gang, and if my experience could help Basil find them and bring them down, I would not regret it.

Basil scowled blackly when I opened the door. Quickly his expression changed into one of shock and horror. "Good heavens, Dawson! What happened?"

I let him help me to a chair. "I believe I was set upon by the Guinea-Pig Gang."

"What, out in the daylight? Are you sure?"

I nodded and winced. "I shot one, or at least grazed him. The cry of pain definitely did not come from a mouse or vole."

Basil looked furious but he said nothing. Instead, he fetched my medical bag and helped me dress my wounds. When the last bandage was applied, he put a paw on my arm. "Dawson, dear fellow, I know this is a hard thing to ask of you, but will you take me back to where you were attacked? There might be a vital clue there that will help me solve this case."

Of course I agreed and together we returned to the scene of the crime. Basil immediately found a few drops of blood. "I have no way of proving it, Dawson, but I would swear that this is guinea-pig blood. But where could they have gone?" Basil prowled about some more, his nose scarcely a whisker's breadth from the ground.

Meanwhile, I had noticed something odd. "Basil, look. Is that street sign supposed to point that way? I thought Berkley Street was in the other direction."

Basil glanced at it, jumped to his paws instantly, and laughed aloud. "You are right, Dawson! Well done! Well done indeed!"

"I don't understand," I said as he did a little jig of delight. "What is the significance of the street sign?"

"Observe, Dawson." With that, Basil pulled the sign so that it pointed the right way. Immediately a small door, perfectly camouflaged to match the brickwork, swung open. "This is one of the entrance ways to the Guinea-Pig Gang's hideout. They were in such a hurry to get away from you that they didn't reset the switch properly. With this, I shall be able to infiltrate their ranks and have them all arrested in no time, thanks to you!"

Basil's capture of the infamous Guinea-Pig Gang is, of course, common knowledge to the public, and he was later decorated for his services. Nevertheless, I was proud to have played my part in their downfall.


	30. July 31

Title: Choice

Prompt: July 31 – pic of the tunnel/cave

A/N: Actually, I like this picture as our final (not counting the amnesty) prompt. I imagine this is set on the Island of Uffa but it could just as easily be in Cornwall or somewhere else with a craggy shoreline.

* * *

_Grey. _

_Sharp. _

_Wet. _

_Black. _

He huddled in the mouth of the cave, cold and wet and alone. He could not remember where he was or how he had come to be there. He had a vague sense that he had not been alone originally but his memory provided no other clues.

He peered out and down. It was nearly dark but he could see the sea crashing fiercely against the rocks, sending up stinging spray. He might be able to leave the cave that way but he was not yet ready to risk it.

In the other direction he could see the cave going on for yards, tapering into a small shaft of light. It had not been there a few minutes ago. Or perhaps the cave had always been a tunnel and he had never noticed before.

Logic said that if he wanted to get out of the cave, he should pursue the safer option. He knew that and yet he was reluctant to do so. So instead he sat, for what seemed hours, huddled in place and unwilling – or unable – to move.

At long last, something stirred within him. He could not stay here forever while his limbs froze in place and his heart died of loneliness. Painfully he uncurled himself and headed deeper into the tunnel, towards the shaft of light. It grew warmer the further he went on and he could see the contours of the rock that surrounded him. But he was still unable to see what lay before him, other than the shaft of light that grew ever larger.

At last he reached the mouth of the other entrance. He placed a hand on the edge of the rock, and gazed at what was before him. There was the light, of course, but within it, nothing but hints and feelings.

It was familiar and solid, wild and careless, interesting, exotic, safe, comforting. It was the best of every place he had ever been to, the culmination of all that he had loved. It was _home_. He would be a fool not to go on.

He did not go on. Instead, he stepped back, rested his back against the rock. Tears of frustration worked behind his eyes. He wanted to enter, wanted it desperately, more than anything he had ever wanted in his life . . . but he could not do it. Just what it was holding him back he did not know, only that it was stronger even than his desire for the light.

He screamed out his despair in a long cry, and stumbled away from the entrance without looking back. He despised every step he took, every inch that took him further away. Ahead of him stretched his shadow and beyond that, the dim and forbidding passage that faced the sea. The light urged him on, as a tailwind to a sailing ship, until once again he looked down upon the waves and the spray and the rocks.

It was just as cold and lonely as it had been before, at least in front. Behind him he could feel the warmth of the light that had followed him down the tunnel. But he could not go that way. He could stay at the sea-facing entrance again, a miserable lump of a man, for the rest of eternity. Or he could risk the rocks.

He did not want to go forward any more than he had wanted to turn from the light but he had no more options. Anguished, he beat a fist against the wall. "I don't know what to do," he whispered brokenly, but to whom, he did not know.

The warmth that was behind him billowed around him, gentle and soothing. He could not help but relax into it. "Help me," he pleaded. "Please help me."

It pushed him forward, onto the merciless rocks below.

_Grey. _

_Sharp. _

_Wet. _

_Black. _

His throat burned. His eyes were raw and stinging. His head throbbed and every inch of him ached terribly. And he was still alone and it was still dark. This, then, was the punishment for not entering the light when he'd had the chance. He groaned.

Watson? Oh, thank God! Watson!"

A sharp pinprick of light burst into his vision, blurred, and then focused into a single lamp flame. Someone's hand was on his. It was shaking.

He tried to speak but managed only a painful croak. The hand left his to support his head. There was a cool curve of glass held to his lips. He tasted clean, sweet water. Then the hand returned and with it, a white face with dark eyes and hair.

"Holmes." He was surprised to realize he had spoken, and even more surprised to realize he was correct. It _was_ Holmes.

"Yes," his friend said but in a voice very unlike his usual one. "Yes, it is I. You're going to be all right now, Watson. It was touch and go for a long time and when we found you among those rocks all but drowned – what the devil happened, Watson; did you slip or were you pushed? No, never mind, we'll discuss that when you're stronger. You've some recovering to do but everything will be all right now."

All right? How could everything be all right when he was here? That is, he wanted to be here but he wanted to be _there_ too. He had to tell Holmes everything was not all right, would never be all right. "The light," he rasped before his voice gave out.

"Of course," Holmes said immediately and dimmed the lamp. "Is that better?"

Helplessly he closed his eyes and nodded. It wasn't, but there was no point in saying that. Nothing his friend could do to make the situation better.

Holmes pulled the blankets up to cover him more securely. "Get some rest, Watson. I'll be here when you wake again."

He did relax then, for as the blanket enveloped him, so too did a curious conviction. He had not chosen wrongly, nor had he missed his chance. The light would wait for him. When the time was right, it would be there.

Meanwhile, here was home too.


	31. Amnesty stories

Title: The Quetzacoatl Project

Amnesty July Prompts : 1-10, not in numerical order

A/N: special, special thanks to gardnerhill for the use of the "Study in Crimson" pirate AU world! This is set in BBC!world, although AU because of one of the prompts.

* * *

4. _Epistolary fic, post-it note style. _ _Word count: 416_

**7 July 08: Serum Quetzalcoatl - Generation A, tray 2 **

Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. Serum tested for contamination, as trays 1 and 3-25 show no evaporation. Serum free of contamination. No appreciable change in effects in subjects post-evaporation.

**1 Oct 08: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation D, tray 6 **

Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. Serum tested for contamination; no other trays showed evaporation. Serum free of contamination. No appreciable change in effects in subjects post-evaporation.

To: George B- From: H. Vargas 2 Oct 08 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum

Should we consider a different supplier of sample tubes? This is the second incident in three months of serum evaporation.

**4 April 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation J, trays 10 and 24 **

Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Affected serum samples not used on subjects.

**15 July 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation M, trays 1, 3-5, 17, 24-25 **

Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Affected serum samples not used on subjects.

To: George B- From: J. Zabulusky 15 July 09 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum

The span of evaporation is a concern. We may need to scrap Generation M entirely and go back to Generation L. History of evaporation through Quetzalcoatl evolution is concerning. I see in the history that we suspect the evaporation is due to the storage equipment. Have we switched suppliers yet?

**26 Dec 09: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation O, trays 1-25 **

Evaporation rate noted, uniformly 1-1.5 mm per sample. No evaporation appreciable in other sample trays. Serum tested for contamination; no contamination appreciated. Nevertheless, no sample used on subject.

To: Amalthea - From: George B- 28 Dec 09 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum

While I am hesitant to involver upper management, it has come to my attention that the "Serum Quetzalcoatl" project may have been severely compromised. It is my belief that what has until now been documented as evaporation may in fact be theft. Please advise.

**31 Jan 10: Serum Quetzalcoatl – Generation O-Alpha, trays 1-25 **

All samples missing. George B- notified.

To: Amalthea - From: George B- 31 Jan 10 Subject: Project Quetzalcoatl Serum Theft of Serum Quetzalcoatl confirmed; all samples of Generation O-Alpha, trays 1-25 are missing. Please advise.

To: Mycroft Holmes From: Amalthea - 2 Feb 10 Subject: Potential Level B crisis Documents enclosed

* * *

1. _Begin your prompt fill with one of the following_. _Word count: 125_

_Mr. Mycroft Holmes was not appreciative of being roused from his slumber a full three and one-half minutes prior to his customary seven o'clock a.m._ This was not just because he was punctual to a fault. It was also because the few, select staff members who had his contact information knew he was only to be contacted outside of hours for Level A, or possibly Level B, crises. And those always made for long days.

The call said the pertinent information had been emailed to him. Mycroft looked over the email and felt a quarter of a second of qualm. This crisis was more of a Level C but he was glad nevertheless to be told.

Project Quetzacoatl was the newest development in truth serums.

* * *

3. _Pivotal plot point, aka The Road Less Traveled. Word Count: 150_

4 April, 2010

Slowly John raised his hands. His revolver was hidden in the flat; theirs were trained on his chest.

"We will walk you out the door. You will draw no attention to yourself or us. You will enter the blue car parked in front. It will be on your right. You will leave your mobile here."

John sighed internally and obeyed. There went his hope of being tracked by GPS. He left 221 by the front door, armed gunmen at his heels. There were two blue cars parked; John went to the one parked in front of the other.

As he entered, however, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson, now swathed in an ugly green parka, being shoved into the other blue car. One of the gunmen aimed the revolver at John's face.

"She's got a date with Sherlock and the boss. You've got a date elsewhere."

* * *

2. _Railway, white, snake, jump, sandwich_. _Word Count: 175_

Whatever John expected to see once the hood was removed, it wasn't this: a room of with walls, containing a small table, a chair, a peanut butter sandwich, and a glass of white milk. Carrot curl garnishes snaked over the edge of the plate and tumbled off.

"_Seriously_?" he exclaimed before he could stop himself.

One of the gunmen smiled in such a way that John want to jump back and run. "Not my idea to feed you. But I hear it goes easier if you have a full stomach."

John looked at the gunman impassively. "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself."

There was a suddenly, burning pain in the side of his neck. John clutched at the area in time to feel a hypodermic pull away. The brickwork of the walls swam and bulged, the lines of mortar crisscrossing like railroad tracks.

"It's called Quetzacoatl," a voice said in his ear. "Newest truth serum out there but still experimental, shall we say. And now, John, I want you to answer a few questions for me."

* * *

9. _Rhyme. (Warning: ultra-cracky and drugged!John) Word count: 100_

"Why do you room with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Because he's got a lot of combs."

"He . . . what?"

"Cut. Cut, print, that's a wrap. Time for a nap!"

The interrogators exchanged an uneasy glance. "So you think you're going to lead us a dance?"

"Wheeeeeee!" John exclaimed, slumped over, smiling, and glassy-eyed.

One gunman looked decidedly unnerved. "Think his brain is fried?"

"It worked fine last month. It should be working now."

"Now . . . now . . ." John murmured. "How now, brown cow!"

The lead interrogator prevented John from falling forward and breaking his nose. "Give him another dose."

* * *

7. _Playing in another sandbox – many thanks, gardnerhill, for use of the Pirate Universe! Warning: dream/halluncinatory fic and somewhat graphic torture. Word count: 300_

The name "Holmes" echoed in his mind. They wanted to know about Sherlock . . . Shear-Lock . . .

No. Mustn't tell them anything. Nothing.

"Where is he, Doctor?"

Not one word.

"I promise you, Dr. Watson, you will tell me where he is or you will regret it."

Not one.

"Dear me, the Scotts can be such a difficult race," Admiral Moriarty reflected aloud. "Left hand to start with, I think. Spiders, hold him down. If the doctor can be made to see logic, there is no reason he should lose his main hand as well."

The pain was exquisite. The damned Admiral had plenty of experience removing fingernails and could do it both deftly and slowly. The thick iron blade slipped under the nail, forcibly separating it from the soft bed underneath, and levered upward. Blood poured out, like wine from an overly full skin.

"Where. Is. Shear-Lock. Holmes."

He howled out some Oriental obscenity, a garbled mess of a couple languages, but it conveyed its meaning clear enough. The Admiral put down the smeared blade and picked up a relatively delicate set of iron tongs. "Now, now, manners cost nothing, as the Scotsman said," Moriarty chastised mildly, and wrenched out the abused nail.

The hellish operation was performed four more times. His throat was raw from screaming, but not one syllable had contained anything that might lead the Admiral to the _Baker_'s whereabouts. Moriarty merely shook his head in disappointment while he gasped and heaved from pain. "Such a pity. From what the cullies tell me, you are the best surgeon that ever sailed the Seven Seas. At least, you used to be."

Moriarty now brandished a heavy cleaver, the sort used in butchering, and brought it down into the main joint of John's left thumb.

* * *

8. _Natural disaster and its consequences. Continuation of the dream/hallucination in the prior fic. Word Count: 265_

Incredible pain washed over him, like a cold wave. Exactly like a cold wave. Then there was another. There was salt water in his eyes and salt water in his mouth. And then he was treading water frantically, desperately keeping his head above the waterline. How he had been swept off the ship into the ocean he didn't know and at this point it hardly mattered. What mattered was this: those threatening clouds with flickers of lightening and that wind chopping up the water's surface meant a hurricane was coming. And he was totally at its mercy.

The wind howled and shrieked until his ears rang with it and he was deaf to any other sound. Salt spray stung his eyes and he closed them, blinded. Then he felt himself lifting up and up and up. The wind died away and he could open his eyes again.

He was above a city, held aloft in the eye of the hurricane, looking down at the tight little rows of red-roofed homes. Nature's fury, water and wind, bore down on them. Before his eyes, they disappeared. Small dark blots appeared on the surface of the water; he cried out in grief when he realized they were bodies.

He stretched out his hands but they would not reach. How could he reach those poor people? How could he save them when he couldn't save himself? A groan escaped him.

And then he was being lowered and the hurricane condescended into a slim dark form bearing over him. "Easy, John," it said in a familiar voice. "You're safe now."

* * *

5. _Actions speak louder than words; ergo, breaking someone's nose is a much more effective means of communicating than verbal riposte. Word count: 350 _

Sherlock was not having one of his better days. He'd failed to anticipate Mrs. Hudson's role as the most recent bomber victim. The confrontation with Jim Moriarty had ended with the mastermind escaping and a destroyed pool. Mrs. Hudson had gone into hysterics once she realized they had both survived. And then Mycroft told him that John had been kidnapped too but taken to a different location.

Clio or Calliope or whatever her name was – the names of Mycroft's minions weren't important enough to be saved to his harddrive – provided a car and coordinates. After that, she wisely stayed out of his way.

Sherlock slipped into the abandoned school, peripherally noted it was a pleasant change from abandoned warehouses and abandoned pools, and followed his ears. Somewhere, nearby, a man was screaming at the top of his lungs. Sherlock quickened his pace.

John was on the floor, the source of the ruckus. His fingertips were torn and bloodied, but not because of any torture. Before the detective's eyes, his friend tore at his own thumb, ripping open a new wound.

Right. That was enough of that. Whatever had been done to John, self-inflicted or otherwise, he needed medical care immediately. Which meant those pawns of Moriarty had to be dealt with first.

Normally, verbal riposte was Sherlock's weapon of choice; however, one could hard engage in a battle of wits when one's enemy was unarmed. They said actions spoke louder than words; this he found to be true when he broke the first minion's nose with his fist.

Calli – or whoever – was right behind him with a swarm of Mycroft-minions behind her. They proved more than a match for five gunmen, even armed gunmen.

Meanwhile, John continued to scream. His eyes were open but unfocused. The flailing hand Sherlock grabbed burned in his and even in his amateur way he could feel John's pulse thrumming away. Likely he'd been given some sort of hallucinogen.

Sherlock gently restrained John's hands and looked to Head Minion C-whatever. "Contact the nearest hospital. And make sure there's ice and towels in the car."

* * *

10. _Alpha/Omega. Word count: 150_

There was one thing to be said about Mycroft's choice of vehicle and that was roomy back seats. This was particularly handy when John took a turn for the worst.

Sherlock blamed himself. Yes, it had been a long day and no, he was not a doctor, but he should have realized what was happening far sooner than he did.

At first John merely twitched as one might in the throes of a dream. Then he shuddered violently and kept shaking. Every muscle tightened painfully. Aghast, Sherlock tried to lower John to the floor of the car but it wasn't easy to maneuver an unconscious body, let alone one that was trying to flail in a space about a meter squared.

Suddenly, the seizure ceased. So did Sherlock's heartbeat, until he confirmed that John was still breathing. Calli's eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "Drive faster," he ordered.

* * *

6. _Gratuitous and shameless H/C/Schmoop. Word count: 331_

Every muscle in John's body hurt. His throat ached. Each finger throbbed. His eyelids weighed a stone and half, easy. And he kept having snatches of dreams or memories that disappeared before they could solidify. A soldier ought to be stronger, but John was no longer a soldier and he was as far removed from his normal state of mind as he could be. He whimpered.

Immediately a hand covered his. "John," a familiar, comforting voice murmured. "You awake yet?"

"Sh'rl'k?"

"Yes." The hand tightened on his. "Do you remember anything?"

"Storm . . . hand . . ."

"You were hallucinating," Sherlock said softly. "They gave you a serum they had stolen from the government. It was still being tested, and its components were unstable. After a month or so it becomes a powerful hallucinogenic. They gave you a double dose of it. When we found you, you were screaming your throat raw and you'd torn your own hands open. And you had a grand mal seizure on the way to the hospital."

"How – long – "

"Almost four days. They kept you sedated until they were sure every trace of the serum was out of your system."

John groaned softly. On some level he understood everything Sherlock was telling him but he was beyond dealing with the implications. Neurologic damage, extensive bandaging, possibly even physiological therapy . . . no. Too much. Not now.

He must have spoken the last words aloud because Sherlock's hand drew back from his. "Yes, the rest can wait. Get some sleep, John."

John made a desperate noise that was half cry, half whimper, and blindly reached out for Sherlock. He didn't want to be alone. "Not now."

"Oh," said Sherlock in a peculiar tone. He said nothing when John seized his hands with both of his own, heedless of the bandages. He merely ran his thumbs gently, almost tenderly, over John's injured hands, for a good hour until John was able to fall asleep.


End file.
